


Lost in Translation

by InfiniteCalm



Category: Nimona (Webcomic)
Genre: Apartment sharing, Happy Ending, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Moving On, One Shot, Post-Canon, Sad, Unable to communicate, feeling sharing, maybe depression, maybe just sad, merry xmas?, off-screen death of character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCalm/pseuds/InfiniteCalm
Summary: Three months later and things aren't as simple as they could have been. You could talk complicated feelings through, but why put yourself through that? After all, Ballister is excellent at steadfastly ignoring both crushing loneliness and any sort of non-violent tension with erstwhile enemy, current friend, Ambrosius Goldenloin.





	Lost in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Re-read the book again recently, thrown back into memories of ye goode olde times when the webcomic was updating... inspired for the first time in a really long time. It's not too long. First sentence inspired by "Wild Sage" by the Mountain Goats. It's been such a long time since I last posted into this fandom!

He thinks he’d feel better if he tried harder. At night, he has complete trust that Ambrosius will never do anything so horrible again, until he doesn’t, until the fact of him sleeping there in the next room is almost too much to handle, and he thinks, I can’t do this without splitting open.

It has been three months since they spilled into this temporary apartment, a stop-gap, a “we’ll see where we end up,” an interlude- but the neat courtyard traps the beautiful October light, and there’s no mould on the ochre walls, it’s quiet in the evenings, there’s space for the two of them to rattle around and feel alone, if they want to. And he doesn’t know why he wants to; but he does.

He’s been so hollow for years- he looks back on it, years and years of nothing- waiting for a change, without really expecting one. And now that it’s come, he can’t bear it sometimes. Ambrosius is here, drinking water, sulking, reading (holding the book far away from his face), looking out the window. It’s what Ballister wouldn’t let himself picture; what he thought was never going to happen. It’s not unfolding how he expected.

He doesn’t know if Ambrosius sleeps at night. He used to snore, but he might have stopped that now; he might be lying alone at staring at the wall between them, and knowing that opening the door is the only thing that will wake them up from this. He might be dreaming of someone else. There were a few waif-like women in the early days. One of them chain-smoked and made small talk- she’d been his favourite; none of them ever lasted, though. It had been enough to get rid of the loudest rumours, although those more pernicious ones were difficult to dispel. And when Ballister involved them in his schemes it had been awkward for everyone; nobody ever met anyone’s eye, especially once Ambrosius showed up at the castle/forest/treacherous pass and the atmosphere changed.

He must be awake in there.

They’ve been talking about politics. The cloud that hangs above them is real and obvious, a clear and present danger, but when has clear and present danger ever affected what Ambrosius has chosen to do? All the actions he is proudest of, he has taken against advice, signage, common sense. Brave, in a sense, sometimes.  And yet, up till three months ago: unscarred.

But his thoughts on other matters he offers unburdened, smiling, face bright. I love the way the birds sit on that little table outside. Isn’t the light heavy like that. Maybe I need glasses? I can’t believe you still buy this brand of razor. Do you know the song- oh, I can’t remember it now.

And he’ll reach out, sometimes, to touch. And Ballister will freeze and Ambrosius will drop his hand. Ballister wishes that he would wait for two more seconds. It’s been ages, he wants to say, more than years, since anyone (you) tried to touch me for the sake of touching me, and it makes him feel nauseous; to think of that, and to feel the alien sensation, that was once so familiar and with which he was so generous- flippant, almost. The shocks travel through his arm, up his spine. Every time it’s easier, and Ballister wants to say, please don’t give up on me yet, please take your time, please be gentle, and I-

But he’ll what? What can he promise in return? It was so easy to come here with him; what else can he admit to himself without being moored on low-tide sand?

Ballister knows, God help him, that one thing he’s never been good at is communication. He can’t make real the phantom hand stretching out and the phantom words that, somehow, incredibly, never fall out of his mouth. The way you feel, I see it in your face, and you see it in mine, how can you not? And why will you not just ask me? Why won’t I ask you? Especially now, when I won’t kill you for saying it.

He gets out of bed; maybe there’s a book somewhere to take his mind off this.

They’ve lost so much time. Their youth, their bodies, their sleep… if they hadn’t been the best, if they hadn’t… but that doesn’t matter anymore, those are only old complaints trying to regain lost ground. He’s been wallowing a bit, maybe. It’s difficult not to wallow.

Actually, this feels like just after The Joust, when everything was upside-down and wrong. Those had been airless days. These are a little better. But the question is the same, has been the same for fifteen years now- how can you still feel this way about this man?

Once, during the more elaborate face-offs, Ambrosius had sprained his ankle running through the forest, and Ballister had to carry him, firefighter-style, through it, until it was safe to let him down. There had been official photographers, a few journalists, and they had been all ready for some villainous dialogue, maybe an ultimatum, probably some diatribes against the Institution- but they had all turned away, embarrassed. Ballister had propped Ambrosius against a fence, none too gently. Their faces had been so close together. He’d been sure one of them was about to say something they’d regret. It had been a warm night. He’d run away into the June blue, and nobody went after him.

They’ve apologised. One big, blanket sorry, conveyed in words, face to face, in hospital-white light. It was brave. He isn’t sure if he could have initiated it himself. It had been hard to sit through.

The bookshelves in his room don’t offer him anything. Maybe the window overlooking the courtyard will slow down these thoughts. Sometimes he looks down there and feels better. He isn’t where he was. It’s different.

But when he goes out to see, Ambrosius is in the kitchen, candlelit at the wooden table. Their eyes meet, but not for long. He hopes Ambrosius didn’t notice his small intake of breath. Just surprised, is all.

“Oh,” Ambrosius says. He rubs his temples and gives a baleful smile.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Not really.” He says. Ballister waits for more, and when it doesn’t come, he sits down opposite, Ambrosius’ face soft and shadowy in the semi-dark. Ballister moves papers and cups out from in front of him.

“Well,” He says. I want to be close to you, he wants to say. Why can’t he say it?

Ambrosius lets his head hang down a little so that his hair falls, perfectly, forward. He lets out a little sigh, looks out to the streetlamp outside the window, and leans his chin on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t smoke but if he did this would be the opening shot of an art-house movie, one up for awards.

You look-

“I’ve been thinking about moving out”, Ambrosius says, still gazing out the window. Ballister can’t read his face from here, but he sounds hoarse and tired. Candlewax drips onto the steel plate beneath, spreads out and cools, white.

“No,” Ballister says, immediately. “Please don’t.” He sits upright, every muscle in his body humming, his throat beginning to get sore.

Ambrosius sighs and looks back, and his lip is wobbling, but in a courageous way and Damn him, that shouldn’t work, he should have left that behind and Ballister feels a familiar disorientation. He thought they were in one place and they were in another, but this, this is extreme.

“It doesn’t make any sense for me to be here anymore. I can do things for myself, now, and- and what point is there? You’re so tense whenever you see me.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Ballister says. The words sound two-dimensional. He’s thinking, now is as good a time as any to try and say something, to try and talk this through-

His hand reaches out and grabs Ambrosius’. It feels like a static shock, but he doesn’t pull away. They stare at their hands like that, for a while, and it feels so strange he doesn’t know what to do. They take a few shaky breaths.

“I’ve been so. In my head.” Ballister says.

“You’ve always been in your head,” Ambrosius says. He looks almost sorrowful, pushing his hair over one shoulder. “Always needed something bigger to push you over.”

Ballister squeezes the hand he’s holding. Three months ago, the city was burning around them, and he thought they were both dead.

“It makes me- it’s not me being tense, when I see you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“I’m not like you,” Ballister says, shivering a little in the cold air.

“That’s for sure,” Ambrosius says, but Ballister doesn’t look up to see if he’s smiling or not.

Ballister picks a pen up from the table and turns it over and over in his hands, and tries to think of some way to explain himself.

“I would have been happy with this” He says. “Us, just working away.”

“No,” Ambrosius shakes his head. “You wouldn’t have been happy. Not with the Institution around.”

“Maybe not. But it would’ve been better.”

“Obviously.”

When Ballister was nineteen, they told him his father had died. He had sat, impassive- stoic, he had thought at the time. He had felt cold. A good knight, following the rules, not girlishly making a scene. He hadn’t spoken to his father in thirteen years. He had few memories of the man; didn’t dream of him, like he did with his mother. But he had always thought- stupid- he had always thought that they would eventually meet again. There'd be time to say sorry.

Ambrosius had been waiting outside the office, and taken one look, and they’d skipped the last two afternoon classes. Ballister remembers that because nobody said anything to them about it, but he’d expected some sort of reprimand for weeks afterwards. It had been the only time Ambrosius had ever seen him cry.

Ambrosius puts his other hand on top of Ballister’s, and the warmth of it brings him back to the present.

“I can’t work out who you want me to be.” He says without looking up. He bows his head forward and Ballister feels his heart jump inside his chest painfully.

“All I ever wanted you to be is yourself, and not that stupid- when people were looking, you were so different, I want you to be who you were when nobody was looking-”

“But I can’t, anymore,” Ambrosius says. “It’s changed now. You were the one who kept on saying that. I’m not the same. Look at me.”

Ballister has been told- Nimona used to tell him, when she was frustrated- that he needed to stop anticipating the next line of argument before hearing it. So he bites back an easy response, and lifts his eyes to Ambrosius’ face, and remembers why that’s been hard to do.

He’s still Ambrosius. He’s still everything he was, plus some. But not the same. His eye, though, he had forgotten his eyes, and their colour; how it felt to look at them closely- but even those have been damaged. Not the same. That’s fair. Ballister can’t speak; he still can’t say what he needs to say.

“Talk.” Ambrosius says, still looking at him. He can’t really breathe.

“I never stopped,” Ballister says. It comes out contextless, more emotion than sense. “I tried to- but I couldn’t- it’s been a long time since I’ve let myself even think about you.”

“But we have been seeing each other. All the time, Ballister.”

“No, I know. But not you- playing that part. But. I wouldn’t let myself remember any of the good parts. After a while, you were kind of two different people. It’s been hard to bring you back together.”

There’s a pause while Ambrosius shifts in his seat.

“I know what you mean.”

It’s too much, all of a sudden. Ballister stands up, pulling his hand away. He goes to the window, and watches the wet wind blow through the trees. Some of the garden furniture has blown over. His breath fogs the window slightly. He can hear Ambrosius shift himself around behind him.

“It’s taken me some time,” He says to the window, and then turns around. “But I never really stopped. I was about to tell you, when Nimona- that night. But when you woke up everything was different, and I was so busy. I needed time.”

Ambrosius coughs a little awkwardly. His face is slightly pink.

“I wasn’t really planning on moving out.”

“Oh.”

Typical of him, Ballister thinks, but he’s not annoyed. What’s a little white lie on top of everything else they’ve done to each other? It’s not like either of them are innocent.

Last week he saw two women on the street, holding hands, and nobody was shouting or screaming, just staring surreptitiously. A lot has changed since they were young. He has known this feeling in his chest and his eyes for more than twenty years, but it feels longer; it saturates every memory he has of Ambrosius, to a greater or a lesser extent. Could they do it? Keep a low profile? Not make headlines? He lifts his eyes up to Ambrosius’ face, and wonders when the forgiveness happened. But it doesn’t matter. He walks back over to where Ambrosius is sitting and pulls up a chair beside him.

“You must know what I’m trying to tell you,” he says, wishing he could just say it, wishing this was easier.

“I need to hear it.” Ambrosius says. He’s always needed things spoken out loud, resented checks against this, would not hear of any doubts about the future.

“I love you.” Ballister says. That was hard. It hangs, like glass, in the air, unripe fruit. Too soon.

But Ambrosius smiles, just a little, and leans his head on his hands, looking up at Ballister from a tilted angle, hair falling towards the table. Perhaps it’s what he needed to hear.

“I love you too,” He says. “I do.”

It’s surreal to hear, at this cluttered table, in this cold kitchen, in this small apartment; stranger is the relief that floods Ballister like a balloon bursting. He realizes that what Ambrosius says is true and that the looks and glances and silly conversations, discussions and touches were all his way of trying to let him know, that around them Ambrosius has been building something complicated and bittersweet in which to hold these bright feelings.

“Stupid, to waste that time,” Ballister mutters, still looking at the lamp of the man opposite him.

“Can’t do anything about it now,” Ambrosius says, cheerfully.

He’s not wrong, but then Ballister is closer to 40 than Ambrosius is; he might feel differently after his next birthday.

Ambrosius rests his head against Ballister’s. It’s alright, Ballister realizes, as he melts into the feeling. It’s going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading xxx


End file.
